


Clockwork

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry fixes things. Louis fixes Harry when he didn't even know he was broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Pants means pants, not underwear. I’m sorry for the side plot but it is just too tempting. They say write what you know, and believe me, I identify a LOT with dear Harold in the paragraphs below. This is dedicated to a few people. Hannah (underagethinkers.tumblr), to whom I owe most of my music taste. Jer, Jeriah Ann, my BooBear, my best friend, my future sister in law, my-middle-name-twin, the farmer to my unicorn who'd give me an Aaron if she could (boobearjer.tumblr), because I don't have to try when I talk to you. :) And Kaitlyn (kaitlynlovesnialler.tumblr), who once tried to tell me to take my own advice and follow my dreams.

"Harry you should eat something."  
"No thanks."  
"Harry you need to sleep."  
"In a minute."  
"Harry, Niall's at the door."  
"Tell him I'm in the shower."  
Anne's hands landed on his tense shoulders, making him realize just how hunched over he was. Harry groaned a bit and straightened up, taking his hands out of the contraption on the table before him for the first time in an hour. "Haz honey, you can't hole up in this dusty old garage forever."  
"Well I can't see Niall!”

“And why not?”

Harry stiffened even further. He debated internally for a moment, and then decided there was no point in waiting. He had to get rid of Niall. “He's  _interested_ , Mom," Harry spat the word, more terrified of it than disgusted. He turned in his chair to face his now crouching mother and pleaded, "But I can't do that. He thinks life is one big fairy tale and he's going to be the sweet little guy who befriends the loser who always sits alone reading between lectures and gets him to confess his love for him and then they live happily ever after but that's not going to happen. I’m going to sit here in the garage and be  _myself_ , thank you very much."  
"Harry, he just wants to say hi," Anne reasoned.  
"And then what, start going out for lunch, picking me up for class? Maybe we'll start...going to the movies for goodness sakes!" Harry called, exasperated. He didn't need this right now. He needed to be working.  
But his Mum would not let up. "Why are you so opposed to social interaction?"  
Harry scoffed loudly and turned back to face his work, burying his eyes in his massive hand. "It's not everyone, just, I don't want a  _boyfriend_ , Mum." He dropped his head on the desk and felt he might've set the wood on fire from heat in his cheeks.  
"You deserve to be happy," Anne cooed, resting a dainty palm on his shoulder.  
"I'm happy here,” He said, voice vulnerable and weak. Like a child. He really didn’t believe there was anything else he needed—Harry was fine.  
Anne steeled her face and sat up straight. She'd had enough of Harry's nonsense. "Harold Edward Styles, I did not endure 3 years of being a single mother working three jobs so I could raise you right, only to have you waste away your teenage years like  _this._ ”

“Like  _what_ , Mum, I’m anyone else’s mother’s dream,” He stated matter of factly, having sat up to match her stiff seating. “I’ve got a job, I’m at Uni and I’m home. I don’t drink or worry you or do anything-“

Anne was almost shaking. “That’s just it Harry you don’t  _do_ anything.”

“I do more than any one of the bastards in those lecture halls.” He mumbled, dropping his gaze.

“The clocks?” She asked, almost incredulous.

_Yes, the clocks!_ Harry wanted to shout. Harry fixed clocks. Well, that was the dumb way to put it. It was much more graceful and interesting when you said it like…fixed things for a meager Uni living. Didn’t that sound like some wonderful line from a novel about finding yourself or something equally attractive? It wasn’t just a  _clock._  It was more alive than any professor he’d ever come across. It lived, breathed, worked, broke, and one day it would work again, as long as he fixed it. Harry had been into the whole gears and tinkering business ever since his stepfather Robin had moved in, bringing along his toolbox and little cuckoo clock. The young boy was instantly fascinated by the complicated mechanisms within, and unlike other children who got lost at ‘pendulum’, Harry’s interest didn’t die. Robin nursed it. He bought him toys; see through clocks, plastic pliers. He never once told Harry, “I’m working, not now.” Even with a customer, Robin would announce his ‘little apprentice’, making Harry blush and twiddle his little 11 year old thumbs in front of his stomach. Harry eventually stopped trying to be good at neighbourhood footie and would rather sit on the front lawn, taking apart another one of the dollar store watches his stepfather had bought for him to destroy. He’d admire the pieces and then toss them away, or he’d set up the gears like he’d seen the captains do and pretend they were players at Man U. They’d roll around guided by his dainty fingers and twinkle in the sunlight, and there was nothing better for Harry. One day, when Robin had finished a simple job, he’d let the little boy shut the maintenance panel and start it up again. The boy watched in awe as the hands jerked, cogs and pulleys and gears inside turning gently. He could’ve sat there all day, positively entranced, captivated, stuck, hadn’t Robin laughed a bit. But Harry hadn’t felt regretful. He’d felt as if he wanted to spend the rest of his life making things move like that. “How do you do that?” He’d asked innocently, eyes not shutting any further.

Robin had just shrugged and said, “I can teach you.”

And from there Harry learned how to fix things. Make them beautiful again. Make them tick. He learned about physics and math and motion and such. That was all he needed, and wanted, and he saw no reason that some irrelevant Irish boy should rip him away from that.

“No Mum.” Harry answered, trying to be careful with his words. He was angry. He didn’t want any trouble but he wanted people messing with his life even less. “For the hundredthtime, it’s my job, my livelihood. It’s not a clock, it’s a body, and it’s-“

“Up to you to make it healthy again yeah yeah I know.” Anne brushed it off with a couple of eye rolls.

Harry raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Are you making fun of my passion?”

“I thought it was your  _livelihood?_ ” She teased, air quotes and small smile and everything.

"If you aren't going to take this seriously that I only have more reason to  _not_  go to that door."  
"Hazzah dear-"  
"Don't  _call_  me that!" Harry exclaimed, actually hitting his palm on the wooden desk.  
Anne continued fighting, unfazed by Harry’s behavior, but then again, Anne wasn’t exactly a normal mother. "You won't be a teenager forever! Rebel while you can! Drinking is half as fun when it's legal, trust me."  
"Mum, I am a working man. I do not break the law and I don't have stupid pet names."  
"You are  _eighteen_ , Harold, not 35. Go out with Niall, just once!" She pleaded, leaning into Harry and grabbing at his forearm and shoulder.  
Harry frowned and continued to not look at his mother. "You don't understand how repulsive that sentence was."  
Anne’s face twisted with thought, she considered something for far too long for Harry’s comfort. He was about to yell again when she spat: "Are you sure you're gay then? I mean, you were only fifteen, maybe a girl-"  
Harry's stomach immediately tossed and turned even harsher than at the mention of Niall. "WHY MUST I BE SUBJECT TO THIS TORTURE?" He shouted, ceasing his feeble attempts to push away his mother’s neediness.  
And of course, "Hey, whoa," Robin chose that moment to walk into his office/garage/workspace thingy. "Uhm, there's a boy at the door waiting for Harry and why are you screaming?"  
"She's abusing me," Harry immediately called, knowing that first place got the upper hand in Robin's books.  
Anne reacted immediately, dropping his arms but settling for smacking him upside the head. "Am not!"  
Harry gestured as the proof was crouching before him. "See?"

"The boy is Niall.” Anne started, standing up and ignoring Harry’s well-supported arguments, “Apparently he's,  _interested_ , in our Harry."  
"Is he now?" Robin’s head dipped with surprise.  
Harry jumped at his chance. Any doubt from his stepfather could help. "Robin, please, scare him away, turn him off, I'll do anything."  
His stepfather considered this. "Anything?"  
Anne wouldn’t have it. “Tell Harry he needs to live a little."  
"I..."   
"Robin, I really need to finish this clock, I mean, it's my best one yet and I’m almost done and I really love it and please don't make me go!"  
"He's got a point." Robin shrugged, looking hopefully to his wife. It only took one short  _i-am-so-unimpressed-with-you_  look from Anne to get his nerve gone and his hands clammy. "No, your mother's right, you should go out."  
Harry forgot: being his wife got the  _real_  upper hand in Robin's books. Harry threw his arms up in defeat and exasperation. "I LIVE IN A BIASED HOUSEHOLD."   
"Yes and I live with two clock repairmen, get over it."  
"So you agree I'm a man and my parents shouldn't dictate what I do and when I do it?"  
"Give the poor boy a chance, Harry!"  
"Mum. I will literally do  _anything_  to not have to go to that door."  
"Harry, you  _have_  to see him!"  
"Robin, please."  
"It is his life, isn't it?" The stepfather tried, and once again failed against his strong-willed wife.  
"Robin!"  
His next suggestion was even worse: "Why don't you just tell him you're busy but you'll see him tomorrow?"  
"Why don't I just stab myself in the eye with a pencil?" Harry mused, still opposed 100% to seeing Niall. There was no point. He couldn’t lead him on only to have to break his heart one day, why can’t today be that day when he’ll get over Harry within minutes, rather than trying to forget months of nervous words and second glances?  
"Look, Anne, you explain to Harry why needs social interactions, and I'll bring Niall inside."  
"Oh darling would you?" Anne cooed, losing her edge in a millisecond as she seemed to win yet another battle.  
"Of course."  
Harry went to protest but as Anne focused fully on her introverted excuse for a son, Robin sent him a devilish, knowing look. Harry was put a little more at ease. Robin wouldn't really have done that to him, would he? Robin understood Harry's undying need to stay inside, alone.  
"Harry, these years, they're going to mean so much more when..."  
Harry turned his gaze on his mother and began to watch to watch her mouth move, not hearing anything. He'd heard it all before. Future this and memories that. Those were for other people. Harry stood firm in his belief that not everyone needed fabulous teenage lives with drinking and sex and rebellion and all that “fun” stuff. His life would be rather full compared to these typical teenagers, in the long run. He’d have a career he loved with minimal social interaction. Everything he thought he wanted.

“So, how’s she coming?” Robin asked nonchalantly, waltzing back into the garage and setting his eyes on Harry’s current project—his first cuckoo clock, done all by himself. He’d been working on it for months. He had to completely reinstall the whole bird mechanism part and re-gear the insides, which was a pretty hefty task for a clock so small. But he loved it. There was no greater feeling in the work than that of a tick tock he made happen himself. Harry had tried repairing scores of clocks like these, but always got stuck and had to turn it over to Robin in shame. But not this one. He wouldn’t let his stepfather touch it. He wanted it to be his own. He was keeping this one. Garage sales were notorious for old n’ broken timekeepers, and since he and Robin had been taking four contraptions of the old man’s hands already, he’d brought out an ancient cuckoo clock that hadn’t worked in years.

“Fell off the mantle during a party, the whole insides got smashed up. It was…it was my mother’s.”

Harry had instantly begun to protest, not wanting to take something that was so obviously precious to the old man, but he just adjusted his glasses trying to discreetly wipe his tears and handed Harry the clock.

Harry’s large hands cradled it like a baby on instinct. It was beautiful. Visibly ancient, but built well. He turned it round a few times so he could see all angles of the cherry wood. “Darcy?” He asked, seeing the faded yellow paint on the bottom.

The man just looked down and swallowed visibly. “That was her name. “

Harry couldn’t help but smile sadly, incredibly touched. He just nodded to the man and went off to a confused and calling Robin, watching as the old man continued to promote his old artifacts with a vigour only adopted with the passing on of old prized possessions. Since then he’d been slaving hours on end to restore it to some form of glory, complete with “Darcy’s Place” scripted in curly yellow letters on the outside of the cuckoo’s home.

“Robin?” Anne shrieked, “Where’s Niall?”

Harry wanted to laugh as his stepfather took a moment to act like he was remembering who this Niall person was, then added casually, “Oh, he had to go.”

Mum was not buying it. “Oh really?”

It was silent for a moment. Robin didn’t know what to say, Anne felt she was winning and Harry had nothing to add. Eventually, after gazes shifted around one time too many, Robin exclaimed, “Who wants pizza?” and promptly pulled out his cellphone and began the call. Anne huffed and stomped out. Robin winked at Harry.

 

The first time he met Louis, Louis didn't like Harry. It was March. He thought he was lame, a nerd, too young and ugly and awkward. Harry agreed with him wholeheartedly. Not that any of this was voiced, but that was the curse of being a young adult with eyes. You know it when someone hates you.  
He hadn't wanted to go on a house call. Robin could handle it himself, and Harry was lazy, and he still had a million things to do for his cuckoo clock, and there were a million more things to clean up in the shop. "Oh come on, it'll be fun!" His mother had prodded, swinging her dish towel through Harry's curls.   
"No, it won't," He reasoned, dropping his pliers and picking up the pivot finder. He coaxed the end into the mess of gears and smoothly, ever so slowly, tapped the end into the proper position. Another tap and a series of gears shifted falling back to their original places. Harry's lips stretched up in a huge grin. "See! I'm almost do-" But he was cut off by Robin's hand slamming the door of the clock shut. Harry jumped, and didn't miss the sickening sound of tiny metal pieces clinking around unhealthily. "Robin!" He shouted, and smacked his stepfathers arm.  
The older man just laughed and stepped back, dodging Harry's weak assaults. "It’s fine, Harry. We've got to go. Come on." Robin gathered his papers from the desk.  
Harry groaned, taking one last glance at his baby—apparently Robin had yet to figure out just how much it meant to him—and slumping off to get the mobile toolbox.  
Ten minutes later, Harry was not ready. His hair was barely brushed, bags under his eyes from staying up too late last night slaving over the inner workings of that clock, clothes ratty from age and dirty as always. He was not ready for an absolutely gorgeous brown-haired-blue-eyed boy to open the front door of this unassuming house. He was not ready for this boy to be his age. He wasn't good around people his age. He wasn't ready in his almost grey Pink Floyd t shirt, not for this boy in all his Saturday-afternoon-jumper-and-beanie-glory. He was so far from ready he almost stopped breathing, fell over and died. But he froze more than anything.   
Not the boy. Immediately his icy ocean blue eyes skimmed over Robin and his work t shirt logo, over to Harry. They raked him up and down. From his feet, age old Converses too close together like the introvert he was, to his legs in his eight sizes too big jeans, to his scrawny arms stretched down carrying the big toolbox and up to his unremarkable face and dull green eyes.   
"Are you here for the clock?" The man at the door asked, scrutinous eyes only going back to Robin by the end of the sentence.  
"We are." He answered.  
The boy stepped back and continued to open his door. "Come on in." A woman, obviously his mother, appeared behind the man and smiled widely.  
"Hello, I'm Jay," She immediately greeted, sticking out her hand.  
"Robin," He answered and took it, then motioned to Harry, who was internally shaking like a leaf, externally frozen and awkward. "My stepson and partner in crime, Harry."  
"Hello Harry," Jay smiled and leaned forward, shaking his hand as well. He hoped it wasn't clammy, knowing it was. "This is my son Louis." She cooed, motioning proudly to the still unimpressed looking boy next to her.  Louis simply twisted his lips into a smile—a quite convincing one too. It occurred to Harry that Louis must be positively radiant when he's actually happy. "Louis' moving to a flat in London in September to finish up his last year at Uni and work part time at a recording studio. He's getting the family Grandfather clock." She gushed obsessively.  
Robin was impressed. "Ah, what a gift."  
Louis just nodded a bit. It was silently apparent to everyone he didn't care at all. Here was Louis, fabulous, dashing, with a job and a life and a new flat. Probably a smoking girlfriend and a bunch of equally amazing best friends. He couldn't be bothered with clocks and nonsense. Louis had dreams, a life, but no cares at all, probably drinking every other night and getting laid just as often. And then there was Harry. Spending an average of 23 hours a day inside, head inside a mess of gears, doing absolutely nothing but forever wishing his hands were smaller. Harry was lame, ugly, nothing compared to this god before him. And Louis did not like Harry. Well, it wasn’t that he didn’t like him, but this was not going to turn into anything more than a business interaction, despite the small distance between their ages that could’ve lead to more if Harry hadn’t been Harry and Louis didn’t have such high standards.

“Well if you’ll come through here,” Jay instructed, beginning to walk through the plain, tidy living room. Robin followed behind her, Harry next and finally Louis flopped along behind them. Harry only grew stiffer, his movements choppy and his body rather numb as his proximity to this rare species of beings-who’s-opinions-shouldn’t-matter-but-do.

The little parade turned the corner into the dining room and a loud cliff-dropping whistle was heard from Robin. “It’s beautiful,” He said, working his way around the table to where the rather grand looking grandfather clock stood. As far as Harry could tell, it wasn’t remarkable really, but he’d always been more fascinated by the insides. Shiny silver gears, clicking minutely as the cogs met and spun apart again. He saw real beauty in that.  Not wood, not gold exteriors; the outside was the boring part. Internally, everything worked wonderfully well, nothing was decorative or frivolous, everything was perfect. It was science and Harry was obsessed with it. And when something fell out of place or got rusty, he got to fix it. He got to forget the scraps of a life he had and coat his brain in diagrams and logic. He saw nothing but a blur of grey for hours. It thrilled him, kept him calm, kept him alive, kept him relatively happy. And that was all he’d ever had and he thought it was more than enough. “May I?” Robin asked, hands already resting on the front access panel.

“Of course, of course.” Jay rushed to answer, and Harry watched his stepfather swing open the wooden door carefully.  He stood awkwardly as they discussed the problem and the prices and times and things. He was hyper-aware of everything; mostly Louis presence not ten feet from him. Harry could practically  _feel_  his scowl drifting to the back of his head and away again instantly. Sweat practically pooled in the cracks between the plastic toolbox handle and the creases in his callused hands. Eyes itched from straining to stay open and seeing nothing. Ears registered only the rustle of Louis’ clothes, and his own heartbeat that couldn’t possibly be coming from a human chest. Each breath became more and more laboured; the pounding in his skull only increasing in intolerability, until Harry really believed he was going to faint. He could literally feel himself swooning on the spot. His legs felt detached and useless. He was going to die.

_This is what I get for leaving the shop,_ He thought, and before another coherent action could take place, Jay appeared to be leaving the room and taking Louis with her, Robin staring at him. Harry hoisted up the toolbox and started making his awkward way around the table. He wanted to throw up, but didn’t. He acted like he was fine and got to work on the clock. It was a simple fix. It wouldn’t take them long, thank goodness.

“He was nice,” Robin muttered, lower than Mariana’s Trench.

Harry snorted a bit and propped open the lid of the box. “No, he wasn’t,” He mumbled back, handing Robin the pliers and praying this would be over soon.

 

Harry was re-evaluating his life. He had been for a few hours by that point, as these things usually took time. It was rather terrifying, arguments against your strongest beliefs popping up out of nowhere. Harry didn't want to be so afraid. He lay in bed, tears perpetually prickling the inner corners of his eyes, hating himself for being so awkward. If only Harry was better looking, or cheeky, able to make conversation at least. The whole situation with Louis earlier that day showed him that. He didn't want to hate people his age. He couldn't judge them all just because Louis was all ‘I don’t want you here’ for the half a minute they’d been in the same room, or because Niall wanted to change his life, or that stoner blew smoke in his face and the brunette beside him had felt bad and smacked him and gave Harry a sympathetic look. They couldn't  _all_  be so annoying. He didn't want to feel so judged and alienated and alone, but he didn't want their pity either. He wanted to fit naturally like everyone else did. He didn't think he could stand much more of all the extremes. Harry felt he had no choice but to turn his life around, stop bullshitting himself and realize that he could do it. Because he could. He just had to believe, and he could do it. Start saying “Hi,” to Niall, apologizing for getting in the stoner’s way, smiling.  
Eventually it became too hard to keep his mind in place, travelling off to how the brunette boy could kiss that stoner when he obviously tasted like gaseous death and things as equally trivial. Why that kid with the big bicep tattoo stopped going to lunch with Niall. What Louis' girlfriend inevitably looked like. Eventually he succumbed to the thoughts and fell asleep, dreaming of boiling women and teasing Louis' and Niall's keeping their distance.  
And when Harry woke up, his nerve was lost. He didn’t even remember what it had felt like, to be empowered like that. It was now barely a memory. Like an aftertaste that was almost gone forever. He couldn't do it. He was weak. He wasn't sure what he'd thought he would do, but he was positive he couldn't do it. He would be a hermit for the rest of his life. Harry wasn't sure if that was okay anymore, but it was his only option.

When Harry woke up, he died a little more. He went down for breakfast and Anne took a bit of a double take when he slapped into the kitchen. Her coffee almost leapt from the mug. “You okay?” She asked. He looked even more anti-social and introverted than normal, and that scared her. All she received was half a shrug and a Harry padding towards the garage, tea in hand.  
When Harry woke up, his vicious cycle began.

 

The second time Harry saw Louis; it was two-or-so weeks later in the hardware store. It was April. He was helping Robin pick up some equipment. He was definitely still working on Darcy, but...it was complicated. Some would say the clock was the only thing he was putting his heart into, but in reality, he wasn't putting his heart into anything. His eyes were constantly vacant. Harry worked on the clock with a renewed vigour, but his smiles were less frequent and it didn't make him nearly as happy as he thought he remembered it used to. His body had become less of a body and was inching closer to a pair of busy hands with a bunch of other immobile stuff that helped them move.

Robin was searching through the wall of tiny bins filled with screws only distinguished by thread count. Harry was bored. Well, he didn’t feel much different than he usually did, considering he’d gotten little brain stimulation at all since two weeks ago, but now, his hands were idle, frozen under the weight of Robin’s tower of “needed” supplies. He’d resorted to counting his own sighs. He was up to 23. Make that 24, actually.

Suddenly Harry was plunged into a dream. It was a cruel one, a beautiful one, but bound to end terribly. In this dream he was standing in a hardware store holding his stepfather’s tools, when Louis happened to be standing, bored, on the other side of the aisle.

Harry glanced around, seeing Robin still staring, oblivious. Louis was still there when he looked back. He searched for some tell-tale sign that this wasn’t real, but slowly, he began to fear that this was no dream at all. Slowly, his chest got too small, his brain vanished, and his stomach turned to ice. Harry didn’t move. He didn’t take his eyes off the boy across from him. It was a shelf of good-sized boxes, and where one was missing, Louis stood. Simply stood, looking as bored as ever, eyes glazed over, stance almost feminine with the sass dripping off of it. Harry felt… trapped. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to stand here and watch Louis stand there.

Harry flinched when Louis finally moved. The boy across the aisle must’ve felt his phone or something because he pulled it from the pocket of his sweatpants and excused himself quietly. From who, Harry didn’t know and didn’t care to look for. Probably his mother buying him expensive furniture for his special London apartment. Louis began to walk down the aisle, and Harry mirrored him absentmindedly, on instinct. His eyes skipped over the boxes, finding holes in the shelves so he didn’t have to look away from Louis. Finally he stopped. Harry copied.

“Hello?” He finally answered the phone, soft, calm voice drifting from two lips trying not to smile.

_Fuck._  Harry thought.

“Hey, how are you?”

_Fuck fuck fuck everything._ Harry wanted to die. He wanted to die a million times. That would be easier than watching Louis speak to this person this way. It was so obvious; he loved them or liked them. Louis  _tolerated_  them. And Louis did not tolerate Harry. And for some reason that was all he wanted in that moment.

Louis laughed.  _Laughed._  “Oh yeah?” That was the moment Harry discovered that Louis laughing was synonymous with getting shot in the chest. “Aww, tell Greg I miss him.”

Harry looked down. His hand creeped up to cover his mouth, tears creeping into the corners of his eyes.

“Yep. Aw…They love hearing from you, okay? Okay. See you next week, Jer. Bye.”

_So Jer is her name,_ Harry thought bitterly. He lost his sadness and looked up again…seeing something peculiar. Louis still had the phone pressed to his ear—in fact his left hand had joined it and he was practically clinging to it for dear life—but his eyes were closed and mouth unable to smile. “ _I love you,_ ” He whispered, like it hurt. Harry was positive the girl on the other end had hung up already though, because he was barely done muttering the three ugly words when his hands were dropping from his head. Louis just shook his head a bit, breathed in and looked up, and in a millisecond his face was blank and bored like before. Harry’s brow furrowed and he blinked a few times. How could Louis go from completely broken to fine just like that?  _Must be something you learn when engaging in social interaction,_  He thought in all seriousness. Harry’s feet began their lazy steps back where he came from as Louis headed back to his Mum. The younger boy still watched him almost sadly.

“Who was that?” Harry recognized Jay’s voice.

“No one.”

He dipped his head and saw Louis and his Mum standing before a man in a ratty uniform. “Must’ve been his girlfriend,” She teased, and Louis immediately stiffened, eyes swimming in rage.

“She’s not my girlfriend.” He spat. He was the only one in the room who knew the truth. She wasn’t. But what did truth matter, when everyone around believed something else?

 

That night was similar to the other. Lots of silence, lots of darkness, lots of thinking. Harry was stupid. Harry was useless. He thought he could fix it, strange enough. Some unknown force had possessed him again into thinking he could have a socially normal future. He was fairly certain he could fix it. Harry was nothing, a single pebble on a paved road, one thread in a king sized blanket. But he could change. Harry had spent his whole life fixing things. How much different could a heart be from a clock?

But that was in the dark of the night, the protection of late-night delusion. When Harry woke up, it was the same story. He was a little more dead, a little more broken, and a lot more scared of life.

 

“Harry, darling, dinner’s ready if you’re going to eat.” Anne leaned on the door frame leading to the garage, catching the attention of her son, shoulders hunched over a certain cuckoo clock with yellow writing on the doors.

He said nothing. Harry dropped his tools, stood up, and walked soundlessly past Anne into the house. She was frozen.

_Harry’s gone,_  she thought,  _There’s nothing left._  Harry had continued to deteriorate. His skin had doubled in pale-ness, his hair had lost any trace of lustre it had previously held to, limbs only getting lankier and if anyone had seen his stomach, they’d know his ribs were protruding grotesquely. Even his clothes seemed to be losing their color, their life. Only his hands remained fully mobile. He only smiled at night.  His mind would sigh when his slipped into his bed in the blackness. He’d be able to breathe, and think, and remind himself that this was the way to live. He’d smile at his ceiling until dreams yanked him under. And he’d awake scowling again.

 

Niall was the last straw. It was May. Harry had been sitting dutifully in his Thursday lecture when the blonde nuisance slipped fluidly into the seat next to him right in the middle of the teacher’s rant. “Hey Harry.”

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, or stiffen, he showed no sign he heard the boy. He obviously did, though, Niall spoke nearly directly into his ear while he was trying to take notes. “Want to go out for lunch with Zayn, Liam and I?”

Harry felt nothing. No fear, no happiness, no excitement, nothing. He blinked once and trained his eyes on the blonde one beside him, and then looked past him, sure enough seeing the stoner and his brunette waving enthusiastically.

Harry looked back into Niall’s eyes. The only option was simple. He shut his laptop, stood up, and found a different seat.

 

Harry cried that night. It wasn’t quite crying himself to sleep, because eventually the tears ran out and he just laid there, numb. Then he fell into a deep abyss of black nightmares made up mostly of shadows and sad eyes.

When he woke up, Harry was very confused. His brain seemed to register that empowering feeling, but no, there was light in the curtains. It was as if someone had blessed him with these simple instructions that could change his life. He could do it. He could do something. He could fix himself. But this was all very confusing, because hadn’t he spent these last two month’s convincing himself that was a lie?

Harry was confused all morning. He was confused when he looked in the mirror. His eyes seemed…bright. Not dark and dismal like the thunder storm they’d begun to resemble, but rich and real and  _alive._  Harry looked alive. This confused him very much.

His mother was gone when he went downstairs. Harry ate breakfast. He got dressed in a t shirt and jeans—both from the back of his drawers, so they looked like a circus compared to the rest of the grey contents inside. The pants were actually that one pair he’d had forever, the ones he’d always considered too tight. They weren’t, really. Especially since his time of being a skeleton, they hung rather loose around him. It confused him how normal everything felt. Peaceful and okay.

Maybe today was actually going to be okay.

Harry went to his lecture, confused. He walked into the auditorium…and sure enough, all his comfort was gone. There was Niall and Zayn and Liam as he now knew them. Sitting right in the middle of the hall. Harry could see the empty seat, he could see himself,  _feel_  himself, sitting there and changing his life.  _Maybe it’ll be easy,_  He thought.

It wasn’t.

It literally felt like twenty seconds of death. Death death death pain fear death betrayal and death. Harry couldn’t really see, or hear, or feel his arms and legs. All he was aware of was chest exploding and imploding and exploding again every second. He wanted to throw up, but he couldn’t because of the elephant in his throat. He only thought one thing,  _Am I dead yet I must be dead this is what death feels like where is the fire._

But somehow, after twenty seconds of slow motion death, Harry was confused. Because he was sitting and his books were on the table and he was not dead because there was a blonde nuisance smiling beside him.  _That was insane._  Harry thought. Who needs drinking and sex when there’s minor social breakthroughs that got him higher than any drug? That was horrible, by far the worst thing he’d ever experienced. He just hoped it was worth something. So Harry filed this day under ‘Worst Day of My Life’ and ‘Best Day of My Life’ and smiled back. He was still confused.

 

The third time Louis saw Harry, it was painful. It was June. Niall was his friend. Not his best friend, Harry was still terrified of people, so really the times he’d spent with the boy were scarce and far too plentiful at the same time. Liam and Zayn could also be qualified as his friends. Sort of. Any time Harry spent with any combination of the three was comprised mostly of Harry sitting and smiling and listening, the others talking and laughing and participating. He’d been wordlessly invited to lunch on that Friday, and he said nothing but “Thanks,” at the end. But that was still the most frightening lunch he’d ever experienced. That whole day required more courage than the rest of his life all put together.

It was at a party. Harry had already been to one of these. It was terrifying. He didn’t do much, practiced being invisible. Now it was two weeks after that one and Niall had convinced him to come to this one too. (It had taken a full week of “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HARRYYYY” texts at all hours of the day in order to make him even consider it. [Oh, you should’ve seen the look on Harry’s face when Niall asked for his phone number.])

So here Harry was, standing alone in a crowded room, a red cup with Coke in it in his hand. He felt awkward. As always. But something felt very very wrong about everything. He should’ve remembered, should’ve thought about it for one second, and he would’ve been okay. But he decided to block his memories and not think at all about where he’d seen this blasted house before. Of course the only other day he’d been here was in his ‘Worst Day of My Life’ folder and consequently tried to be forgotten, but still. He shouldn’t have been so frightened when he saw Louis laughing and throwing back a shot.

Harry’s mind went into over drive. His fear turned to hope and then settled somewhere in the middle. The plague of that empowering feeling returned, dulling the absolute terror Louis instilled in him.

_This is your chance.  
This is your worst enemy._

_You can change, you are changing; everything has lead up to this moment._

_You’re going to fuck up again._

His thoughts were cut off and his adrenaline spiked again as an intoxicated Irish boy jumped in front of Harry screaming, “Heeeeeyyyyy!”

“H-“ Harry started, but paused to clear the lump in his throat caused by not speaking for a few hours. “Hey.”

“Having fun yet?” The blonde asked. His fuzzy blue eyes were trained up at Harry’s.

Harry nodded shallowly. “Yeah.” When he so obviously wasn’t.

“Whassat?” He dipped his head down and stared invasively into Harry’s cup.

“Uhm, Coke, I…I think-“

“Well there’s the problem!” Niall exclaimed happily, some of the contents of his own glass sloshing out. To Harry’s light and nervous protest, he coaxed the cup from Harry’s humongous hand, setting it down and easily swiping an unmistakable brown bottle from some unsuspecting, very inebriated party-goer. “Go on,” He pushed; nearly putting it between Harry’s lips himself.

“Uhm,” Harry took it and brought it as far from his mouth as he could. “Thanks. Are…Are Zayn and Liam here?”

Niall laughed, loudly. Like, it was enough to catch a few eyes. "Yeah, we probably won't be seeing much of them, if you know what I mean. Maybe Zayn. He's...kind of a bipolar drunk. Needy and all over Liam and then off dancing with anything that breathes five minutes later. Oh, and Liam never drinks enough, health problems.”

Harry ‘hmm’ed. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t usually.

“Oh! Have you met the Tommo yet?” Niall asked excitedly, nearly bouncing. Harry tried to answer but he was cut off, “I’ll get him.” The Irish man downed another quick sip and was about to flit off when he pressed back up against Harry, landing a provocative hand on his chest and whispering far far  _far_ too close to Harry’s mouth, “Nice shirt by the way.” Niall winked and backed away, presumably to find this Tommo person.

Harry sighed, wiping his mouth almost subconsciously. He looked down at his shirt. He frowned. It was just a plain white shirt. Sure, he’d had it for almost four years and you could call it “tight” but it was nothing special. He went to set the beer on the table where Niall put his cup but before the glass touched the wood, he felt a spark of curiosity. New Harry would drink it. Or try it, at least. Didn’t people get stupid when they’re drunk? Stupidly confident?

Confidence was what Harry needed. He glanced around, Old Harry searching for a reason why he shouldn’t do this. He stared down into the brown abyss and swirled it around a bit.  
 _Gross,_  he couldn’t help thinking. Harry felt so stiff, so unnatural, like a corner in a world of spheres. He was ugly and awkward and everything these carefree, fabulous people weren’t. He shouldn’t be at this party.

At least, not like this.

Old Harry barely noticed anything, he was practically in denial.

New Harry was just trying to ignore the absolutely horrid taste of the poison slipping down his throat.

“Hey there.”

Harry nearly choked on the beer. He coughed a bit and looked over at whoever decided it would be a good idea to interrupt a man taking his first sip of alcohol. “Oh,”-sputter-“Hi.”

It was some blonde chick with freaky small eyes, long bangs and a curly ponytail. She was wearing a white, skin-tight dress that started high up her neck and ended just above the halfway point on her thighs. “You don’t look like you usually come to these kinds of things.” She reminded Harry of some sort of a predator.

Harry shrugged. ”I don’t.”

“I’m Taylor,” The girl prompted, tilting her head and fiddling with her ruby red lacquered nails.

He couldn’t really breathe. “Harry.”

“So who are you here with then?” She asked, innocent.

But Harry felt something. This felt like…she was prodding. Isn’t that something you ask to find out if someone has a girlfriend or boyfriend? “Uhm, Niall Horan.” He tried, and then added, “My friend.”

Taylor’s smile widened a bit, and she nodded. “Hmm. Do you know Joe Jonas?”

“Does he have a brother?” Harry questioned, and took another sip of his beer, going to much trouble to choke it down.

“He’s got two. He’s my ex.”  
Harry just ‘hmm’ed. What she said made no sense: he was her ex, was she still here with him? Was she trying to get away from him? Impress him? Harry would never know, because he could never ask. Not used to the feeling, he immediately noticed when someone’s gaze began to bore into him. His eyes darted around, terrified, and suddenly Harry saw a guy who couldn't be five years older than him glancing at him amused, with long black hair, stubble, dark eyes and a red t shirt. Harry instantly looked away trying to hide that fact that he saw and the blush creeping up on him.

“I’m…” Taylor glanced around a bit. “I’m gonna go get a drink, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Harry smiled at her. “Okay.” She grinned wider and turned on her high heel, strutting off to find something pink and fruity.

Harry meant to look aimlessly into the crowd, but even he doubted that argument when his eyes instantly connected with the same dark haired boy. Harry’s breath caught and he looked down. He tried another grueling sip from the bottle. It seemed to clear his mind and give him a bit of a headache at the same time. Harry was definitely not having fun, but this night felt…important. He was glad he was here. Even though this party sucked for someone like him.

And then Harry was painfully aware of the black haired man walking towards him. Harry prayed in those last few moments, prayed he would be going anywhere else, to speak to any other person. In vain. The boy just flicked his hair to the side and walked right up to Harry. “Hi.”

Harry swallowed. “Hi.” His mind, as it usually was when he was attempting social interaction, was a constant loop of  _nonononononononononononononononononono._

“I’m Joe,” The man said, and many things clicked in Harry’s head. He stuck out his hand.

“Ahh, I’m Harry.” He replied and took it.

“So Taylor?” Joe asked, and instantly Harry wanted to laugh.

But he was nice. He just looked down for a second to compose himself and then back up, saying, “She just walked up to me and said you were her ex-“ But by then Joe was laughing along. Harry didn’t try anymore.

“Just be careful, she’s a…” Joe trailed off and tilted his head, like he was trying to think of the right word.

“Melodramatic?” Harry suggested, making his whole chest freeze up and hope he wasn’t wrong. It was very very far out of his comfort zone to suggest things. One sided conversations were his thing.

Joe smirked. “I was  _going_  to say a bit of a monster, but let’s go with that.”

“Oh she won’t be much a problem. Not once I tell her I’m gay.” He said absentmindedly.

_Oh shit._

Harry just came out to a complete stranger. Harry hadn’t even like, officially came out to Niall and Ziam. (It saved Harry brain space from always thinking ‘Zayn and Liam’. They were pretty much always together anyways.) They’d just assumed he was. After one lunch in the courtyard, Harry had easily picked out the cliques: cool seniors, lame seniors, both groups made entirely of kids in their 4th and 5th years who’d formed due to their time together ticking away rapidly, the jocks, the pretty people, the artsy kids, blah blah blah, and Harry couldn’t find any other classification for his newfound clique than ‘The Gays’. It was that or ‘The Misfits’, given their four persons were like the four seasons, north south east and west, Dorothy, Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow (Niall being Dorothy, obviously). Frankly, The Gays sounded much more glamorous. The point being: Harry hadn’t voiced his sexuality to anyone his own age, so hearing it was more frightening than many things.

Again his head was a chorus of  _Nononononononononononononononononono_ , and his body was under some sort of lock, like his bones were all broken and his every muscle was tensed beyond relaxation.

And then, Joe laughed. But it was a nice laugh. Not a ‘you’re joking’ or ‘nice one’ laugh. “Well that’ll do it,” He answered lightly, and Harry’s entire body seemed to sigh with relief. It was okay. He was okay. Somehow.

Harry flushed and nodded as Joe clapped him on the shoulder and headed off to do whatever. He thanked the heavens that that conversation had gone okay, and Joe had left before Harry had more chance to leave the air dead or mess up in one of the other countless ways he could. He sipped his beer. He glanced around.

Harry didn’t really like parties.

It was literally seconds before Niall reappeared. Still happy, face flushed hands full of a bottle and the wrist of someone tan with an angled face. “Harry, this is The Tommo.”

Harry’s consciousness swerved.  _Oh. Shit._  Was all he could think. Because Louis. Louis was standing in front of him. Harry felt very very confused all over again. Because not only was Louis  _here_ , in front of  _Harry_ , he looked drunk, and normal, and  _happy_. Harry had been wrong—Louis was more than just radiant when he was feeling positive, he was everything beautiful and lovely and perfect and frankly better compared to the mother-effing sun.

“Oh! The clock boy!” Louis exclaimed, smile only growing along with the knot in Harry’s stomach and the blush on his cheeks. The drunk blush. He could smell the alcohol off Louis’ breath from across the distance between them.

“Uhm.”

Niall’s face was torn between confused and happy. “You know Louis?”

“Uhm. It’s compl-“

“Yeah mate! This guy came and fixed my clock!”

Harry bit the inside of his lip. The fire had grown from engulfing his entire head to inching down past his collarbone. As if everyone—well, everyone who knew him, which was a small,  _small_  number—didn’t already think he was a complete dork. Harry tried to swallow, and failed.

“You look different,” Louis mused, head tilting.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve started hanging out with Niall.”

Louis laughed. Harry’s air deficiency increased as his cursed eyes picked out his teeth, his lips, his cheekbones, his hair and every other perfect aspect of this golden skinned boy before him. His mind was pretty much just  _Looooooooooouuuuuiiiiisss_. “Well, uhh, it’s been nice to see you again, but I really should go. I hope you’re having a good time.”

“Yeah, I am. Thanks.”

“I-Oh!” Louis exclaimed, turning and—to Harry’s utter dismay—grabbing the arm of a girl. Yes, a girl. Harry’s chest took a vacation. She was undeniably beautiful; he could see what Louis saw in her. Harry could see how he meant nothing to Louis, and this girl meant everything. “This, is Jer.” He presented. She stepped up into their little circle of acquaintance and fluidly linked her fingers with Louis’.

She was curvy, with light, kind of reddish brown hair that looked like it could turn ginger in the sunlight. She looked happy and bubbly and funny. Like the kind of person who everyone knew about and loved. This was Jer. The girl who Louis wasn’t able to tell her that he loved her a couple months ago. Harry couldn’t help from wonder if he’d told her yet, along with registering the unquenchable fire of jealousy that was burning his stomach and chest away agonizingly slowly. No doubt this girl was normal. Everything Louis wanted. This was who Louis loved. Harry was anything but that.

Louis, somehow, meant so much to Harry. He was everything Harry wanted to be; but would that mean he wanted to date himself? Because now, with this girl on his arm, Louis looked even more delicious. Harry wanted everything about Louis. His personality, his looks, his confidence mostly, but he wanted to be Louis’ happiness as well. He wanted to impress Louis. Harry hated failing: to him, there was no worse feeling than that of making a mistake. And that day, those few months ago, when he first “met” Louis, that was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Harry felt he couldn’t rest until he’d fixed that.  
But Harry was Harry. And Jer was Jer. And Jer was what Louis wanted.

“Harry.” The boy who was somehow taller than everyone around him croaked out.

Jer nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Well, we’ll leave you,” Louis prompted, smiling at Harry and then walking away. With Jer. Harry couldn’t watch them walking for long.

“Wanna dance Harry?” Niall asked, eyes bright and face oh so hopeful, Harry almost didn’t want to crush his dreams.

Alas, he shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t dance.”

Niall pouted. Full on, big blue eyes, comically downturned mouth, I could almost call him cute. Okay yeah, he was cute. But Harry didn’t like him. Niall was a wordly boy, while Louis was  _heavenly._  “Please Harry? What are you going to do if you don’t dance?”

_Go home. Work on Darcy._ (Harry had experienced more than a few moments like these, wishing he could go back and be his easiest—but not necessarily best—self.) He just shrugged. “I’ve got my beer.”  _Sadly._

Niall looked down at his own drink seeing it empty. “I’ll see you ‘round,” He excused himself, distractedly, and flitted off to do whatever drunk Niall’s did.

Harry was then left alone for about a half an hour. He didn't do much, so in the end it felt like 3 minutes rather than 30. He did finish his drink, and did notice how lovely his stomach had been feeling. Not at all scared and twisty and gross. More than anything, Harry felt free.  
On the inside that was. He would've loved to have gone and gotten another drink, but that would've increased his chances of seeing someone who would've talked to him by %500 percent, so he simply set the bottle down on the table next to him. One minute later, when his hands got bored, he picked up his Coke again and proceeded to finish that as well. It sobered him a bit, but not much. The multi-colored party lights still blurred with the flashy crowd delightfully. Harry felt wonderful. He hadn't felt wonderful in a long time.  
But then Harry wasn't alone anymore. A slim hand attached to his wrist and when he looked over, it was Taylor.  
 _Ugh,_  He wanted to roll his eyes and yank his arm away. Then he remembered he hadn't told her he was gay. She should know. Maybe she would've left him alone. Harry's tipsy mouth had fully opened when suddenly he was being pulled along, hearing a shrill voice say, "I need a favor."   
Harry couldn't bring himself to speak somehow. Taylor was being very very nice to someone who could give her so little in return. Maybe he owed her a favor. Maybe informing her could wait.  
They stopped at the edge of the living room, on the outskirts of the bouncing crowd. Their position was but a few feet from the opening to the dining room, where the cursed Grandfather clock stood. Harry just directed his eyes back into the swirls of color in front of him, pretending he'd blocked out the memory.   
Taylor was on her tip-toes looking around. When she was satisfied, she came back down and looked at Harry.  
Harry, poor, innocent Harry, half his common sense gone with one beer, barely even spoke to a girl since Grade 7 Harry. Gay Harry. Likes boys Harry. Likes  _Louis_  Harry.  
What was he to do when Taylor grabbed his face and kissed him?  
His first thought: ew. Her lips felt gross, wrong, all wrong. He wanted them gone.  
But Harry was right: people got stupid when they were drunk, and he had just enough alcohol in his system to make him believe that it wouldn't be all bad if he let Taylor kiss him.  
(In the long run, it wasn't.)  
There was people imitating the sounds of shot guns, people laughing, screaming, cries of "Who is he?" and "The hunter caught her prey again!"  
"Whore."  
"Slut."  
"No seriously, who is he?"  
Harry pulled away and she was smirking. He almost threw up right in that moment. "Taylor I-"  
"Thanks," She spat, eyes wild and now searching the crowd.  
"Taylor I'm gay."  
"That's fine," Taylor just kept her hand on his cheek, eyes anywhere but Harry.  
He shook his head and threw her hand off. "I need a drink," He muttered. Taylor was gross. Taylor was a gross person. Harry spit into the corner and walked away, running his hand through his hair. Niall found him instantly.  
"What...what was that?"   
"I need a drink," Harry repeated. Needless to say, Niall helped him do more than just find a drink. It was more of a... _let me help you drown out whatever just happened with a long line of tiny glasses filled with multicolored alcohols_.   
From that point on, there wasn't much talking. Niall didn't question Harry at all. However, Harry did ask how Niall knew Louis, to which Niall answered, "Oh...I dunno...I've been going to the parties him and his group of friends throw ever since October."  
"Group of friends?" Harry prompted, painfully curious.  
Niall shrugged. "A bunch of musical twats. Radio geeks Nick and Greg, and then these other kids, Josh, George, Jaymi and JJ."  
"That's a lot of J's and G's. You almost feel bad for Nick."  
"Oh no, they call 'im Grimmy. It's Louis you feel bad for. Louis Tomlinson. He's the odd one out, and it doesn't help his girlfriend's named Jer."  
Harry proceeded to roll his eyes and down two more shots, attempting a third, but that one didn't really count since it only proved to make his hair sticky. And that was pretty much the extent of the conversation.

"Aw, oh no. Ohhhh no." Louis gripped his hair and looked away. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be feeling like this. Not this. Not now. His stomach only seemed to spiral further and further downwards into a hole of uneasiness. He didn't want to be seeing this, but he didn't want to feel so bad about it either.  
 _Jealous_.

Not jealousy, no, no no no no no. That made no sense. It made negative sense, really, there were plenty of reasons arguing against the fact that Louis was-  
 _You still think Love listens to reasoning?_  
"Aw fuck you, Louis." Came Jer's unmistakable voice. She was a character, that one.  
He turned and looked at his girlfriend, now seated, unimpressed, on the couch. "Oh yeah? And what are you fucking me for?" She just kept her gaze forward and tried to hide the cheeky smile growing on her lips. Louis still noticed. He rolled his eyes and muttered, "You know what I meant."  
Jer lost her humour. "For the same reason we've been on and off like a light switch these past months, Louis. You're gay!"  
He didn't know what the emotion was that immediately erupted inside of him, engulfing the entire inside of his torso, but frankly he didn't give it time to register. He just sunk shallowly onto the couch and kissed her.  
To Jer's "dismay", she couldn't resist him, and her hands shot up to run a thumb over his stubble-covered jawline and twist in the shoulder of his t shirt. She allowed herself merely ten seconds of the lips she couldn't get enough of. Then she stopped. Somehow. Jer wasn't used to controlling herself—that was no fun! The heart wants what the heart wants, right?—but there were bigger things at stake. Like Louis' happiness. He noticed her lack of motion and pulled away a bit, prompting her to let go and look down.  
"Did that feel very  _gay_  to you?" Louis sassed. He was the only one who could get away with talking to her like that without a sharp retort flying back almost instantly.  
"That's not the point! It doesn't matter how  _we_  feel, it matters that you like this Harry guy and I'm not going to stand by and let you pretend you don't so you can keep up our very unhealthy relationship!"  
"Unhealthy?"  
"Taylor's a slut. She's kissed more guys in here than football matches you've played, so if her kiss, which probably meant nothing, can make you that jealous, then I'm sorry but if you won't do it, I will." Jer sighed and looked down, screaming at herself to stop crying. She couldn't cry  _every_  time they broke up. She had to stay strong just once. She should be used to it by now, thinking she'll never kiss Louis again. So far he'd always managed to swing back and be wonderful enough again to convince her he loved her. Which he did. He did love Jer. And Jer loved Louis.  
Well that's what they all thought.  
"Jer, how can I be jealous when he isn't even mine?"  
"You're still-"  
"How can I be jealous when I'm  _not gay_?"  
"Missing the-"  
"How can I be jealous for  _Harry_  when I have a girlfriend?"  
"Point of all this!"  
"How can I be jealous when I have the affection of someone as lovely as you?"  
Jer just stared at him. She was silently hoping she didn't have to do this. She really really  _really_  loved Louis, but that was just another reason she had to let him go. No, Jer wasn't planning on getting him back one day. She was more hoping she never did. But loving him nowadays hurt almost as much as it made her feel like flying. If it hadn't worked eight times in the past, she couldn't bring herself to believe it could work now. It hurt loving him, and knowing every day that it was definitely going to end. Especially since his apparently platonic obsession with this Harry person that surfaced every now and again, only to have Louis come to his senses and see the beautiful girl before him and shove it back to the dark recesses of his mind. Jer knew that Louis would one day definitely stop caring about her and start loving someone else and eventually he'd definitely delete her number and one day, when it all got too much, and he could barely remember his mother's name, he would forget her. There would be someone else in his last dying thought.  
But right now, they loved each other. And it pained her every day to wake up knowing that wouldn’t last.  
"Well then. How can you love me when all your daydreams are about meeting Clock Boy again?"  
"I-"  
"How can you love me when, now that he's here, he presents a greater challenge?"  
"Well that's-"  
"How can you love me when I've already accepted this isn't going to work? How haven't you seen that?"  
"I don't try to understand love, Jer."  
"Then stop fighting it and give him a chance!"  
Louis' eyes had rings of tears waiting to pool. He grabbed Jer's hands in his own and made her look at him. "I love you-"  
"I know you do! God, I love you too..." She just stared at him, pain and salt water in her eyes.   
"But..."  
"But," Her voice was weak, but loud. She was having a hard time forcing herself to say this. "We're over."  
Jer looked down. Louis exhaled shakily. He didn't let go of her hands. He leaned in and kissed her once, softly, making her head tilt up a bit. But then it was gone. It was over.  
It was goodbye.  
(For real.)

 

(Niall hadn’t believed Harry when he’d said his mum wouldn’t mind if he went home drunk. In fact, Anne was positively ecstatic when Niall pushed an extremely intoxicated Harry through the front door at 1 am. She’d thanked Niall and asked if he needed a ride home. He was fine, thanks. And very confused.)

 

"So where's Jer?" Greg asked unknowingly.   
Louis stiffened. "Gone."  
"When will she be back?" Nick prodded, leaning back in his plastic chair. They were having lunch after a lecture as they usually did.  
"Never, Nick, we're done for real."  
Greg and Nick shared a look. Louis was never this cold. Louis was happy, joking, never down for too long. Even when Jer ended it, he was up. Every man could use a hall pass every now and again. Jer and Louis never broke up, not for real. Maybe Jer really had left him.  
"Do you...do you want her back?"  
Louis shrugged and continued to keep his eyes trained on his sandwich. "Doesn't matter. She won't have me until I go after H-...someone else first."  
"Who?" It jumped from Greg's mouth faster than he fully processed what Louis had said. 'Won't' and 'someone else' was all he needed to hear.  
The tired looking boy shrugged again. "Some nobody. I met...them once and...it's complicated, it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm doing yet."  
"Well it's a guy," Nick began, pretending to speak mostly to Greg, "And Tommo thinks we don't know him."  
"You don't." He muttered dryly. He honestly didn't know why he put up with these assholes anymore.  
Nick crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Name?"  
Louis looked up and narrowed his own blue irises. "Harry Styles."  
It took Nick a minute—just kidding it was more like two seconds—but he did snap his fingers and sit up straight and basically explode from the sudden wave of being right. "The kid Taylor kissed to try for Joe again. Last week at your house."  
"Fuck." Louis muttered. He leant back, defeated.  
Nick was beaming. "Mate, there are  _still_  pictures of that in my Twitter feed." Yes, he pulled out his phone more for reference than dramatic affect. Clicking on one of said photos, he bent over to show an excited Greg. Nick whistled. "He's fit, you got his number?"  
Louis rolled his eyes. "No Grimmy, I don't. I barely even met him last week."  
"Well you better hurry if you need your chance with him. That won't stay single forever, especially not with Taylor's spotlight rubbing off on 'im."  
Louis stood and dumped his food in the nearest trash can. His teeth felt a bit loose and powdery from gritting them so hard. He wanted out. Of all of it, Nick and Greg, Harry, Jer. He just wanted everything to go back to before the stupid Clock Boy had begun to plague his thoughts so uselessly. It wasn't even attraction, just...curiosity. Louis had first gone weeks without a conscious reminder of the ratty, tall, curly boy who'd come and gone like the wind. But then he was in one place. When his Mom brought up the dreadful subject of Louis' move to London in the Fall, which lead to the clock—which he didn't care about—which lead to an image of Harry. Then later, a random thought of,  _I wonder what Harry's doing_. The frequency of these kinds of things increased, the space between them lessening.   
Until last week. When Taylor kissed Harry, right in front of everybody, and Louis wanted to rip her throat out.  
Until Jer was fed up and left him.  
And now Louis had no choice but to go after Harry, if he was to have any happiness at all.

Harry was a loser. Louis was still aware of this. He was still aware because it was still true. It’s not like now that some people had begun to take an interest in the kid that Louis was going to pounce and say, “ _I knew him first, I knew he was cool._ ” Because he hadn’t been. And he still wasn’t. Sure, Harry was no longer the lanky, pale, tired looking boy at the door who could’ve been sixteen, but he was certainly still unnervingly awkward. He was at the same—or a very close—level of social retardity, but with darker skin and a prettier face and gasp! Could that be some muscle between those bones and that skin?  _Some_. As in, little, if any at all.

And even despite Harry’s lack in the appearance department, everything he did seemed hesitant and he made you feel like you were stepping on his toes every two seconds. He was too afraid to be funny, too lighthearted to be boring, he was a walking paradox. Well, everyone was. And that was a paradox too because there was  _no_  way Harry was like everyone else. Harry was in a category, far, far off to the left, by himself.

Harry was a loser.

Louis didn’t regret shunting him off like that when they first “met”. He hadn’t been in one of his finer moods anyways and Harry just made him…disappointed? Truth was, he could’ve used a random stranger who was too nice and also beautiful and decided to remind Louis he was still alive and still interesting. But no. Harry was a boy, and dressed like a home-schooled high school kid, and made Louis just want to have to stop dealing with the world and it’s expectations. He didn’t work. Louis was horribly unimpressed with Harry. He wanted to sleep for at least a week, not tear his eyes from his Disney movie marathon to get up and talk about some clock. Some random nerd was not worth that much effort. Okay, he wasn’t random any more, but Harry was still a nerd and not very cool…meaning not very worth it?

The dilemma only seemed to build. Louis had no fucking idea what he was doing.

 

Harry was a lovely friend. Even if he was reluctant (completely and utterly %100 opposed) to attending another party, he was kind and caring and searching purely for the approval of those around him. This seemed to be so easily gained from his new "friends". (He didn't feel he could quite call them that yet. He still had trouble looking Zayn and Liam in the eye.) They were all such wonderful people—Harry felt nothing but eagerness when Niall requested he run to the Starbucks across the street.  
"I'd get it as usual but...you know our orders by now, right Harry? It's time you start pulling your own weight," Niall teased, and winked comically in an attempt to reassure the flustered boy. Harry just nodded away his blush and stood from the patch of grass they were sprawled across. They were never really awake until they'd had their caffeine. Niall was propped up against a low stone wall separating the yard from the campus sidewalk, right near the corner, so Liam was against the same row of sandy bricks perpendicular to it. Zayn was pretty much just curled onto Liam's side, head in his boyfriend's neck, knees on his stomach, barely conscious at all. As Harry passed under the awning to the front section of the school where he could dart across the road for coffee, Liam let his eyes travel to Zayn's back pocket, where his pack of cigarettes were nestled as always. He didn't smile, nothing, he just slipped the paper package out and flipped it open. Niall had noticed by then. This was part of their daily routine, and he'd only seen it a few times because he was usually the one flitting off to Starbucks, but he wasn't alarmed or surprised or anything. Liam just took two slim cigarettes, set them on the ground, and returned the pack. He pocketed the strays and sighed.   
"You're getting risker, Payne." Niall pointed out. He'd bumped up the rate from the normal one missing fag.  
"He's getting better." Liam mused, unable to keep his hand from sneaking up to brush his boyfriend's quiff off his forehead. Zayn never bought more than two packs a day—another of the endless list of limitations that being a student brings—and Liam's logic was simple: if a few went missing, he'd run out quicker, and have to go without for that little bit longer. Lessening his addiction. He was weaning Zayn off the smokes slowly and discreetly.  
"He's going to notice."  
Liam brought a tired finger to his lips and 'shh'ed Niall slowly. "Not unless you tell him."   
The blonde boy responded by rolling his isolated eyes. It was too early for emotion. He sighed and glanced over to where Harry had disappeared in the stream of Uni-goers. "I just hope this works." He muttered, head lolling back to smack on the brick.

Across the street, Harry was stumbling into the cafe with a nervous sweat about to break and what he was pretty sure was his friends' coffee order playing on a terrified loop inside his head. The line was long. It was, after all, quarter to nine on a weekday, so Harry only had to step inside to be considered in line. He sighed. First battle won. He hadn't messed up yet. Yet. Key word.  
Harry's mind wandered to where it always liked to be: his garage. The addicting smell of wood varnish and axel grease, the blissfully endless rows of pliers, drills, and wrenches. The wall of Robin's prizes, clocks of all forms, shapes and sizes, that he'd always felt especially proud of. Harry knew what he was doing with his life. He was taking over Robin's business. Once he graduated with his degree in Engineering they'd move to a real building, maybe far enough to give Harry an excuse to get his own flat. They'd expand, and build clocks, and continue to fix things and make things beautiful for the rest of their lives. If Robin ever tired of it, Harry would be there to scoop up the ownership position like he already had it. He pretty much did. One day, Harry would have his own wall, with Darcy's Place displayed in all her glory on the most central, ornate shelf. She was Harry's ultimate. She represented everything, his spirit, his addiction, his love. He liked to put things back in place, make them beautiful again. Darcy was the epitome of that mission.  
"Next please?"  
Harry struggled to get up to the cash and recite his order. He was awkward waiting for it. He fumbled with the brown paper tray. But eventually he had the damned coffee, and he was ready to leave.  
And then his eyes were stuck on a positively breathtaking face that made Harry's mouth water harder than when Robin brought pizza into the practically airtight work room. Louis. Wearing fucking  _glasses_. With his laptop and a frappucino and a book at a table in the back corner of Starbucks, where to Harry's luck, they couldn't have seen each other until that moment. His luck switched just a little when Louis chose that moment to run a hand through his flowy fringe and look up.  
Harry might as well have dumped all four coffees on his face for how fast it heated up. He looked away, ran away, and hoped their eye contact lasted for even shorter than it felt. Louis was going to think him an idiot now, a stalker, a loser, lame, gross, uncool and unattractive-  
"Harry!"   
The air turned to molasses at the angelic sound of his name on Louis' tongue. He slowed, cursed himself for not ignoring it, and with great difficulty, managed to turn around and walk stiffly to where Louis was studying.  
"Good morning Harry." Louis smiled genuinely up at the annoyingly tall boy.  
"Good morning," Harry mumbled shyly. He just stood there, lanky and awkward. He wanted to die. Forget party Louis, quiff and cotton button down Louis, weekday morning Louis was Harry's favorite Louis. It could've been the sweatpants or the tummy-hugging t shirt or the laid back aura he emitted so effortlessly, but there was only jokes hiding the fact that it was definitely the glasses.  
Louis didn't falter. "Have a seat." He clicked a few things on his Mac and then tilted the screen %75 closed. Harry had somehow managed to manoeuvre his paper tray onto the table without ruining the computer. He sunk into the chair, hoping he looked casual. He felt like death. "So, what's up?"  
Harry shrugged. "Just getting coffee."  
Louis raised an eyebrow. "I can see."  
The curly boy blushed but did not smile. "Sorry. Uhm-"  
"Who for?"  
"Um, Niall, Zayn and Liam?" Harry barely even knew what he was saying, his breath and heartbeat were so condensed and loud in his own ears. He didn't care if it sounded like a question; he just wanted it to make sense. Some sense. He'd settle for just a little sense.  
"Oh yeah," Louis nodded, confirming he at least knew of them. "You have a lecture now?"  
Harry nodded back. He was quiet. He liked being quiet. It was much harder to make a mistake being quiet.  
"Are you okay Harry?" Louis asked, sipping his rather girly frappucino.  
"Yeah, I'm fine," He rushed to answer, but hopefully not too quickly. He prayed his face was blank but optimistic. That was the easiest, least suspicious expression. It felt like he was holding one of those faces that your parents warned about, the ones that would leave you stuck like that if you weren't careful. Maybe it would be better if Harry was perpetually empty. At least he wouldn't be sad on the outside.  
"No, how are you  _really_?" Louis prodded, like he was some sort of John-Green-novel-hero-with-wonderful-opinions-about-society-and-a-hamartia-worse-than-fame.   
Harry shrugged. It was too early for this. He found his coffee and tried it, then answered a still expectant Louis, "Really, I'm okay."  
The older boy just narrowed his eyes further and leaned back. "Come on, what's the first word you'd use to describe yourself right now?"  
 _Terrified. Alone. Scared. Terrified._  "I'm fine." Harry was far from convincing him but he didn't need to, he just couldn't admit that he wasn't okay. Really, when had Harry ever been okay since he met Louis? He'd risen, only to fall and land lower than he'd started, only to rise and fall again, only to rise and land somewhere terrifying above his clouds of ignorance. And since then he'd been a balancing act who'd never been taught how to stand on one foot. "How about you? How are  _you_?"  
Louis lost his spirit and looked down. He immediately regretted it. "I'm good," He tried, looking up and smiling that fake smile again. Harry missed the real, radiant Louis.  
"And Jer?" He asked quickly and simply and took a sip of his coffee trying to make himself breathe again _. It's okay Harry, you just asked a question, no need to go into cardiac arrest_.*  
"We broke up. Again." Louis stated dryly.   
"Oh." Harry was freaking out, he was dying inside. Louis was single. Louis was unhappy. It was almost too obvious how little it affected him that his girlfriend had broken up with him. Harry's chances lurched up into existence, right alongside his heart into his throat. "I should go-" He began to prepare himself to leave, grabbing the paper tray and shifting forwards on the seat, but was ever so rudely cut off by the only person he didn't actually mind being cut off by.  
"Can I have your number?"  
Harry's head shot up to look at Louis. He felt a lot closer now that he was on the edge of the posh black chair, and the older boy wasn't so slouchy. He traced the glare from the chandeliers in Louis' glasses with his gaze. "Uhm." Harry watched as the older boy’s eyebrows rose a bit and the unmistakable tinge of fear crept onto the blue irises. "Sure."  
And it was gone. Louis was silently sighing and smiling a bit and pulling out his phone and thanking Harry. He didn't have to thank Harry. Harry was the one who should be doing the thanking. Harry would never be able to say thank you enough in just one measly lifetime. He just handed Louis his phone. He ignored his stomach pirouetting for the eighteenth time because  _Louis was touching his phone asdfghklasdfhuiw._  
"Thanks," Harry managed, taking back his cellphone and practically receiving an electric shock from the prospect that his hand and Louis' hand had had indirect contact. He stood up—without spilling the coffees, you go Harry!—and nodded.  
"See you later," Louis undoubtedly, unashamedly, one hundred percent leaned back, sipped his frappucino with a ghost of a smirk on his lips, and fucking  _winked_  at Harry through his black frames.   
Needless to say, Harry bumped into four other pedestrians, two parked cars, and nearly got run over on his short two-minute trek back to where his sleepy friends were waiting.

"Still alive?" Niall chirped, his caffeine in sight.  
Harry nodded and smiled. "Somehow." He settled next to the blonde and put the paper tray in the common ground between them all.  
Liam and Niall instantly reached for their cups. Harry prayed—what felt like—harder than ever before in his life, hoping he got the order right. His eyes didn't want to move. He was practically sweating. But eventually they sipped from their paper cups and didn't contort their faces or spit it out or anything so Harry assumed he'd done at least a decent job.  
"So what took so long?" Niall asked nonchalantly.  
Harry's face enflamed. He looked down. "I was just talking to someone."  
The blonde let the appropriate time pass before asking, "Who?"  
Harry's eyes slid shut and he sighed. There was no avoiding it, he guessed. "Louis." He mumbled, and drank his coffee.   
(No one noticed the blonde typing out a quick reply to a certain senior in a Starbucks with jittery nerves and a new contact.)  
Liam's eyebrows rose. "Louis Tomlinson?" Harry nodded; face tomato-eqsue, embarrassed. "Wow. He's in arts and stuff, right? That's across campus, practically a different school." He glanced down and then to Niall. "They've got their own Starbucks. I wonder what he was doing at this one..."  
Niall shrugged nervously and Harry felt awkward and left out. He didn't get it, to Niall's relief.  
"FUCK." Zayn let out, making everyone jump a little as he'd barely moved for the past half hour, let alone shown any sign that he was even awake. "It's nine." The lecture began at nine. This was common, dismal knowledge. Zayn sat up, shifted a bit off Liam—but not much, they were big believers in PDA—and snagged his coffee off the tray. He took a long sip and sighed. His head fell instantly back onto Liam's chest. Any attempts Liam had begun of standing up were halted with his boyfriend's presence.   
"Babe we gotta go."  
"Five more minutes," Zayn mumbled in his slightly rustic morning voice, wrapping his arm tighter around Liam's stomach.  
"You're like a koala," The brunette noted, amused.  
"Well Harry," Niall finally exclaimed, drawing the curly boy's curious and slightly confused attention away from the couple against the wall, "Let's leave them to their morning snuggling and head to class while you still have your innocence, yeah?"  
Harry just blushed and nodded.

_Niall: Someone's in love and it's not just you. ;)_

 

The first time Louis texted Harry, the younger boy nearly undid half the work he's put into Darcy's Place. The still-alien vibrating made his hands spasm and the entire table jumped along with the clock encasing Harry's fingers. The world stopped. But then his chest released and Darcy was okay; he could breathe. He set down the tools and prepared himself to read the text. (It could've been Niall. Well, Harry knew Niall was out for dinner, but still.)  
There seemed to be a clamp around Harry's lungs, tightening every second he stared at the damned text. _  
Louis: Hey, will I be seeing you in Starbucks tomorrow too? Haha_  
Harry wanted to run away and never answer it for fear of saying the wrong thing. He wanted safety and loneliness. He could survive off the adrenaline of one text, right?  
However the other half wanted him to reply instantly. He wanted to say something witty and appear happy and eager and funny. But Harry was not. He was sad, and reluctant, without any humour worth taking another breath for.  
There seemed to be a pretty good argument against just staring at it for the rest of eternity, but no, stupid Harry had to go and respond and pretend to be cheeky.  
 _Harry: I don't know. Maybe ;)_  
Damn Harold, you seductive beast.

The next time they met, Harry was pretty sure he was in love with Louis. (Louis stopped walking thirty minutes across campus through complicated switchbacking hallways just so he could pretend to study in a Starbucks and possibly see a certain obnoxiously tall curly haired student.) Okay, maybe not  _in love_  in love. But you know how when you talk to someone, and this someone grows to be one of the most important influences in your life? Regardless of whom they are and what they talk about, regardless of everything that usually affects a relationship, you feel as though you could talk with them forever. There's no stopping you. Whether it's as meaningless as why toothpaste is white, to as "meaningful" as politics, it doesn't matter, they're amazing and a good person and you could never let them go. Like soul mates. Well,   
Harry and Louis were hooked on each other. As different as they were, they found ways to text about anything and everything. They had surprisingly similar music tastes. Harry just googled 'indie bands' because his distant observation of the people he wished he could talk to led him to believe that was cool, and Louis was Nick and Greg's unofficial apprentice to the world of music beyond pop radio stations. A bit ironic.   
Harry found himself hovering around his phone like he was the earth and it was the sun. If it charged, he followed. If he worked, he'd set it up on the ledge and move as close as he could to it. His phone was his gravity.  _Louis_  was his gravity. The texts felt eternal. His day was measured by when Lou got around to messaging him. Sometimes he'd get a few within a few minutes, others a reply every hour. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter how often or scarce Louis made them, it was infinitely more than anything Harry had experienced before.   
He kept his hands inside his clock, continuing to build the complex inner workings; his ears on the vibration of his cellphone and his eyes somewhere in between. The bird inside Darcy's Place had seen more dopey Harry’s smile than anyone would care to. He didn't like to smile before his Mum though. He didn't want her thinking she was right, because she wasn't. Harry hadn't been ready all those months ago when Anne had been prepared to drag Harry by his toenails to see Niall, but he was ready now. He was different now. Better, stronger, more secure. He had roots. He wouldn’t fall too hard if his barriers left him to fend against the wind on his own. So he let her believe he was still rather unimpressed with the whole "having friends" situation.  
So three weeks later Harry found himself in a movie theatre, Niall paying for a mound of food, Louis walking in behind two other rather pretty looking boys. Yes, at one time he'd scoffed at the idea of movies with Niall, but hey, Zayn and Liam were going to come and somehow Louis and also whoever those other people were. He still kind of scoffed at the idea. Harry had been in a very different place back then. He was still terrified, he still considered himself an introvert who never did anything, but now he was actually here instead of cowering behind his job—which he had had every right to do!

“Hey Harry,” Louis walked straight up to him, face impossibly bright.

“Hi,” Harry answered, wishing he could do more. Louis stopped a bit further away than what felt like normal, but it was probably just his hormone’s talking.

The older boy worked to tear his eyes off Harry, whose attractiveness had seemed to increase every time they saw each other, and motion forward his other friend’s awkwardly. “Harry, Niall,” He looked to the blonde now standing behind his curly friend, “This is George Shelley and Josh Cuthbert.” They both smiled and George waved a little.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Harry and Niall smiled back.

 

He probably would’ve enjoyed the movie very much. He loved the first ten minutes. But then Louis started making ‘that’s what she said’ jokes right into his fucking ear and his mind was just a blur for the rest of the dreadful hour and a half. Every few minutes he’d say something; Harry would freak out on the inside, agree quietly and try to look back at the screen. But whenever Louis’ lips were that close to his head in general, everything shut down. He couldn’t see or hear, he could only feel the light rush of air as it ghosted over his ear. Eventually he gave up. He stopped trying to pull his focus into whatever they were watching and just focused on looking like he was still breathing. It was a pretty arduous task.

 

It ended. Harry didn’t get much of a goodbye from Louis, and there was no way Harry was going to initiate that kind of thing. He did, however, think he saw yet another wink from the blue eyed boy as he turned to walk out the front doors. Harry didn’t quite believe it. He couldn’t really move. Or breathe. But that was okay, because he now had the adrenaline of two winks from Louis Tomlinson under his belt.


End file.
